


So Very Young

by vargrimar



Series: Deleted Scenes from the Cutting Room Floor [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Missing Scene, Roadhog interrogates his very frazzled son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2019-06-06 14:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15197105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: Explosions, while outside the norm for the everyday citizen, have a surprising array of sounds that Roadhog has become well acquainted with. If anyone cared to ask, he’s sure he could name every type of explosive he’s heard. In fact, it has come to the point where he could give a rough estimate on how much damage a bomb might inflict from its noise alone, and he supposes that might be an impressive feat if he weren’t so invested in making sure the creator of said bomb remains in one piece.Fortunately for him (and his boss, he must concede), the bang does not belong to any sort of explosive.





	So Very Young

**Author's Note:**

> An old Your Body Is a Weapon short from 2017 that takes place after chapter 37.
> 
> Prompted by [@the-mic-drop](http://the-mic-drop.tumblr.com/):  
>  _"Ok, so, PLEASE don't take this the wrong way, but out of all of the characterizations in YBIAW, Roadhog is my favorite. Don't get me wrong, Sym & Junkrat are superb, but the way you portray Roadhog as this hulking, silent, ominous, almost inhuman protector is spot-on to me. I know this may be an odd question that nobody wants but me, but is it possible to get a little snippet of the story from Roadhog's POV?"_

A rather sudden bang distracts Roadhog from his novel.

Dog-earing the page, he sets the worn book down on his belly and sighs through his mask. Two years of playing bodyguard has granted him enough experience to distinguish one bang from another. Explosions, while outside the norm for the everyday citizen, have a surprising array of sounds that Roadhog has become well acquainted with. If anyone cared to ask, he’s sure he could name every type of explosive he’s heard. In fact, it has come to the point where he could give a rough estimate on how much damage a bomb might inflict from its noise alone, and he supposes that might be an impressive feat if he weren’t so invested in making sure the creator of said bomb remains in one piece.

Fortunately for him (and his boss, he must concede), the bang does not belong to any sort of explosive.

Disparate footsteps crash down the corridor outside Roadhog’s room, followed shortly by generous strings of colorful curses concerning inconvenient wall placements and leg plates. He cranes his head to the side and catches the tail end of a peg leg zipping past the entryway. He thinks he might’ve glimpsed a shock of blue among grimy camos and a slip of red, but he can’t be sure. If he’s honest, he’s never sure when it comes to Junkrat. Then again, his eyes aren’t what they used to be. Maybe it’s time to give the mask a good dusting.

Letting the book slip down onto the bed, he hefts himself to his feet and snatches a strip of leather from the floor. He draws up his silver hair into a massive fist and ties it into a feathered spike at the crown of his head. A dull pain aches in his knees, but he ignores it, pulls up his ill-fitting trousers, and shimmies out of the just-big-enough threshold to pad down the hall.

When he reaches Junkrat’s cluttered alcove, he raises an eyebrow. Roadhog is used to a great many things about Junkrat—his habits, his messy tendencies, his explosive interests, his occasional memory hiccups, and his constant tics—but he is not always prepared when something out of the ordinary occurs. With Junkrat in a shirt and shorts and stumbling around bear traps and toward his bed with a roll of blue papers and other miscellaneous items clasped in his hands (all the while still mumbling curses under his breath, _grinning_ ), Roadhog can safely say this can be considered out of the ordinary.

Well, as out of the ordinary as things are like to get.

“Hey,” says Roadhog. “What’s with you?”

A jolt seems to shock through Junkrat’s spine, and he snaps to a sudden stop by his bed. Goods in tow, he turns around and regards Roadhog with what he can only read as nervousness. “What? What d’you mean what’s with me? What’s with _you_?”

Defensiveness. A very good start.

“You’re grinning like a shot fox. Only a couple things make you look like that. Means something happened.” Roadhog folds his arms over his belly, oxygen pulling through the mask. “So. C’mon. Let’s hear it.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” says Junkrat.

“What’s that, then?” he asks.

“What’s what?”

“What you’re holding.” Roadhog nods to the objects clutched in his arms.

Junkrat bristles. “Nothing, all right? Just something I been working on. Trying to get it finished.”

“Since when did you build things like that?”

As if he’d forgotten he was still holding anything, Junkrat’s gaze whips down to the white-blue construct clasped in his metal hand. It lingers there for a good moment, his thumb tracing over the sleek surface, and the same infectious smile returns to his face. There’s something about his posture, about the way he carries himself; there is anticipation cording through his arms, his hands; a tremor has its claws into his back.

Roadhog isn’t stupid. He knows what’s going on. He’s been around long enough to recognize things in people when he sees them. Even with his worsening eyes, he’d have to be bloody blind not to notice that the Vishkar woman has situated herself into one of Junkrat’s primary interests, and from his own studious observations, it would seem that the opposite holds true as well. Watching her own interest drift from disdain to curiosity and then to something else entirely has been a personal amusement of his, and while he supposes he could probably do more productive things like working on his bike or more reading during his idle time, watching his boss get sucker punched in the heart isn’t a bad way to spend it.

He used to be Mako Rutledge, after all. It was a very long time ago, but a part of him still remembers, and it remembers all of the love and life and trappings that came with the man who lived on a solar farm under blinding sunshine.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Roadhog cocks his head and affords Junkrat a solemn stare. 

The evidence is in the way Junkrat freezes. His back straightens in a too rigid line and his expression is reminiscent of a child getting caught stealing sweets. The grip on his haul tightens, the papers wrinkling in the center where his fist crushes them together.

“It is her,” says Roadhog. “I was right.”

“No, it’s _not_ ,” argues Junkrat, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Would you piss off? Talked about this already. I don’t need you on my back about it again.”

Drawing in a deep breath through his mask, Roadhog plods over to the doorway and leans against it. The knot of his hair brushes the top of the threshold. “Rat, look. Quit lying. It ain’t doing you any good.”

“I ain’t lying,” he insists. “Put a sock in it, will you? I told you, I don’t want you on my back about this. Got plenty else to worry about. It’s not her, all right? Lay off.”

“Now who’s telling porkies? Shove it.” Roadhog knocks a nearby bear trap aside with the side of his foot. The rust on its hinges is the color of the wasteland, and an old stitch behind his ribs starts to hurt. “Hey. Just think of this as payback for sticking your nose where it don’t belong. Least I didn’t lie to you. Could do her a favor and do the same.”

Junkrat dumps the blue roll of papers onto his sheets. They unfurl in a flourish, revealing white penciled handwriting and various designs for something Roadhog cannot name. A small measuring stick follows the roll, and then the little construct on top. A shaky breath climbs out of Junkrat as he slides his hands up through his hair, tangling through shocks of blond: defeat.

“I dunno what to do, mate,” he says. “I feel like I’m stuck. I don’t like being stuck. Don’t like being all penned up. Gets me tense. Pacing. Feel like I gotta snap loose. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”

Well, that’s something. Roadhog tugs up his trousers and snorts behind his mask. “What’d you do?”

Junkrat provides him with a withering glare. “Oi, why’s it always ‘what’d Junkrat do’? That ain’t fair. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t! Swear it on me life. She’s the one that did it, all right, not me. I was sitting there, wasn’t doing anything at all, just was talking to her and then she—” He stops himself, clamping his good hand over his mouth, as if the next words burned on the thick of his tongue.

“She what?” prods Roadhog. “She tell you to shut it?”

“I wish,” he mumbles through his fingers. “Mighta been easier.”

“You _wish_ she’d tell you to shut it?”

“What? No, no, damn it, she just—” Junkrat shakes his head and makes a strangled noise in his throat. Color spikes through his cheeks; he clenches his hands into tight coils and he curls in on himself. “Fuck, mate, I weren’t expecting nothing like this. Don’t make no sense. I don’t bloody get it. Why’d she have to _run_?”

“Run?” Roadhog cradles his forehead with his hand. Fuck. Of all the things. “The _hell’d_ you do?”

“I told you, I didn’t do nothing! I just was sitting there, all right, just was talking to her, that’s all! Thought maybe she’d appreciate the tea she left in the bike, so I brought it to her, but we got to yabbering about—ugh, I can’t even remember, cooking or something, bush tucker, I don’t know, head’s all addled—but then I think I said something wrong ‘cause she just…”

“She _what_?”

“She… kissed me. She did. Right here.”

Junkrat’s prosthetic hand climbs up the side of his face and traces down the hollow of his cheek, passing freckles and birthmarks and the insomnia carved beneath his eyes. His fingers remain there far too long, like he can still feel it against his skin, like he’s staggered in disbelief, and a small smile edges at the side of his mouth.

“I dunno, mate,” he mutters. “I think she might like me.”

With everything he’s endured, it isn’t often that Junkrat looks his age.

But Roadhog has to admit: right now, flustered and grinning, he looks so very, very young.


End file.
